Razaran
by quillstrike
Summary: Beware the Razaran, for its power is great and its demands greater still. A Tomione multiverse.
1. Before

_Content warning: violence, language, grief, etc_

 **Before**

For centuries, millions lusted after the Razaran. Whole civilisations rose and crumbled as the Blood Wars raged throughout the land. The blood after which the wars were named pooled to the ground, brethren all too willing to kill their own when faced with the prospect of _power_ -

Each time the conflict quieted, each time the people allowed themselves to hope that maybe this time, peace would last, the Razaran would reappear, incensing a new wave of people to sacrifice their friends, their family, their _humanity_ in the name of the legendary War Starter.

When the ashes finally settled and only those incapable of battle remained, the relic vanished. As decades passed without sign of the legendary dagger, the survivors were all too willing to forbid all mention of the cursed dagger. If no one mentioned it, they argued, no one would fight for it. Hushed rumours of its magical properties grew more and more preposterous until all that was left was an old wive's tale fit only for sleepy children. History became fable as new kings and queens chose rebuilding the world over supposed fairytales. The Razaran faded from the world's fabric, one knife in a sea of fabled weapons.

Still, one mantra remained in each ballad and story -

Beware the Razaran, for its power was great and its demands greater still.

 **Author Note: I don't even know how to categorize this fic. It's not one crossover but many. It's not one story but many. It's not one world but many. In other words, it's a (hopefully entertaining) mess ha - thanks for reading!**


	2. 1949

**1949**

Tom Riddle was not shy, or hesitant, or any other adjective suggesting weakness. He took a great deal of pride in his unparalleled ambition; in his twenty-three years of life, he had yet to meet a man who could even hope to compete.

He thought briefly of the gaunt, greedy man who had presumed to order him around for so many years. Three years of following Caractacus Burke's orders, three years of mindlessly labelling the endless packages, three years of pandering to the stream of customers stupid enough to believe they could find objects of any value in the lurid bowels of Knockturn Alley.

No, the _real_ treasures were hidden deep within the very outskirts of the world, clutched within hands as possessive as his own.

He tipped his head back slowly, eying the dilapidated building before him. The dark grey stone structure was built in the same style as the other ancient Bulgarian farmhouses he'd passed on the remote dirt road. The windows were shuttered with stained wooden boards, the front lawn drowning in unruly weeds. Four months of chasing down a string of wizards, each angrier than the last, had culminated in this moment. Finally he would seize the elusive secrets of the War Starter, the Knife of a Thousand Souls.

The Razaran.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his wand, sending a sudden flare of bitter magic into the barren ground. If the rumours were true, the Razaran would provide an endless wealth of power, power enough to stop anything foolish enough to defy Lord Voldemort - even death.

It had been difficult enough to _persuade_ the old Dark wizard in Germany to reveal the Razaran's existence. The stubborn man had held on for days, clutching his secrets even in the face of considerable duress.

Still, he'd caved - they all did, each one another mark for Voldemort's ever growing list of conquests. In one desperate cry he'd spilled everything, tales of a cursed dagger that had started wars interspersed with pleas for mercy. His knowledge had been frustratingly vague, providing only a vague Bulgarian location and horrified whispers of the Razaran's destruction.

Lord Voldemort had rewarded his confession with a quick death.

The Dark Lord turned his attention back to the aging cottage, narrowing his eyes as he searched for protective wards. The outer edges of the building looked frayed, swirls of stone seeping into the backdrop of heavy grey clouds. Every seventeen seconds the leftmost stone - the one next to the round window - shuddered, a blue flash of light jerking from the rough surface for a split second before slipping back into submission.

His lip curled, his handsome features twisting into a cruel display of scorn. The warding spell, while well above the capabilities of the average Hogwarts student, wouldn't fool even the lowest of Aurors. Pathetic. He'd hoped for more of a challenge from the infamous Nephele the Nefarious; rumours suggested she was the descendent of Morgan le Fay herself. Still, the Dark witch was old, and he was powerful - certainly more powerful than any other Dark witch or wizard he'd encountered - and killed - during the past year.

Slipping his wand from the depths of his dark robes, he lazily flicked it towards the suspect stone and, timing the spell to coincide with the next flash of blue, dispelled the wards.

"Pathetic," he murmured.

Picking his way carefully through the rotting weeds, he paused before the peeling door. Although he doubted the old hag would provide a challenge, she _had_ survived to old age - a veritable feat in a world of endless rivalry. Of course, this would soon change.

Lifting his wand in a practised gesture, he traced the outer edge of the door, a pale hand reaching slowly to caress the faded wood. He sent a savage wave of magic through the brittle barrier, smirking to himself when he heard an answering crack as his curse razed the witch's second layer of protection.

Then, pushing the door open with a silent slide of his fingers, he crossed the threshold. Blinking at the sudden darkness, he surveyed the musty interior carefully. The cottage's sparse interior was as unappealing as its exterior. He could not understand why the Dark witch lived in such squalid conditions; she wasn't a filthy Muggle, and he'd seen several superior cottages down the road that were ripe for the taking.

He dismissed the ajar door leading into the kitchen and, glancing upwards, smiled. A small patch of the stained plaster roof shimmered with magic. Casting an unveiling spell at the square, he stepped back just in time to avoid the large, wooden staircase that came crashing down from the roof.

Eying the clouds of dust, he sneered at the crude construction; the staircase was as aged and awkward as the rest of the house.

He heard a dull thump from above and, his eyes gleaming, ascended the stairs swiftly, his heart racing -

He was so close to claiming his rightful place as ruler of the Wizarding World. He would not let one witch stand in his way.

He burst into the cramped alcove and, smiling thinly, pointed his wand at the stooped woman clinging to the back wall. She was easily over a century old and of Asian descent, her snow white hair dry and tangled. He could see the marks of battles long in the faint scars lining her hollow cheeks and bare arms. His eyes dropped to the thin, lacquered wooden box clutched between her bony arms, and his smile grew into a jagged grin.

"Hello, Nephele," he said carelessly.

The witch let out a moan, her black, angular eyes wide. She pressed back into the wall, her right hand fumbling behind her -

He froze her with a flick of a wand.

"Ah, ah," he crooned. "No need for such unpleasantry."

Stepping forward deliberately, he stared greedily at the slim box. The glossed exterior was lined with inky black symbols that blurred when he looked at them directly. He would have to study them later, but for now, well, there were more important matters on hand. This close, he could feel a hum of power emanating from within, and his own breath quickened. He could feel the intoxicating _thrill_ of it surging through his veins, the back of his heavy black cloak lifting slightly as an unseen wind whispered of destruction and _power_ , sweet, sweet power -

Murmuring counterspells against any curses cast on the box, he slipped the box from the elderly witch's iron grip, ignoring the brittle crack of her bones as the heavy wood left her hands.

The witch all but forgotten, Lord Voldemort grasped the box between his hands, his eyes fluttering shut as the wood all but _sang_ between his fingers. Each wave of magic pulsing from the box sent a shock of adrenaline through his body.

He wanted it. He _needed_ it.

Yanking the box open with trembling fingers, he gazed eagerly inside.

Empty. The fucking box was empty.

His eyes flashed red, his head rearing up to stare accusingly at the witch, to _curse_ the witch to oblivion and hear her _scream_ for the mercy she would not receive -

The witch was surprisingly close, and he had a brief moment to wonder how she'd broken his petrifying jinx before Nephele the Nefarious smiled.

She looked different, he realised - stronger, younger, darker. He caught a glimpse of a black rune etched into the pale expanse of her collarbone and, his eyes widening, brought his wand up, thinking fiercely _Avad_ -

Nephele frowned, her thin lips a slash across her narrow face. She blinked. Crooned, "Ah, ah. No need for such unpleasantry."

Her voice was rapture itself. If he believed in gods, he would say the smooth silk spilling from her throat was a gift from heaven. His thoughts stilled, and to his vague horror, he found himself thinking desperately of ways to get her to keep speaking. Perhaps he could charm her; he knew he was handsome, and a well placed smile often brought girls to their knees -

He curved his lips into a tilted smirk, letting his eyes drift across her smooth, even-featured face. Her midnight black eyes were expressionless, her hair forming an equally dark curtain around her face. He wanted her to speak. He _needed_ her to speak.

When the witch remained silent, his mood soured, and he brought his wand up to cast the Imperius, for if he couldn't charm her into it, he could use other means -

The witch shook her head. "You, Tom Marvolo Riddle, are a horrible excuse for a person," she said critically.

In some back part of his mind, he knew that he was being insulted, but he couldn't bring himself to care because she was _speaking_ again and he felt like _drowning_ in her voice -

He didn't see the knife until it was hilt-deep into his chest.

He blinked unseeingly down at the dull, battered gleam of it, his lips parting -

Then the fire erupted, a terrible heat searing through his veins, and his blood was _burning_ , boiling within the confines of his veins -

He _screamed_ , his veins standing in stark relief against his pale skin. It was the worst pain he'd ever known, and dear _Merlin_ she was moving the knife, her face indifferent as she carved her mark into his skin.

He wanted to claw himself out of his body, to _rip_ the scorching veins from his skin, to flee the damning agony tattooing itself into every atom of his being. Lord Voldemort, the man who had survived splitting his soul five times, was dying.

The cursed witch was murmuring something, and her voice was no longer ecstasy but torment, a barrage of sour orders burrowing into his ears -

The dagger paused in its excruciating trail and, with a sickening pull, reluctantly slid from his chest.

"Farewell," he heard dimly.

He fell to his knees, clutching at his chest, and felt an entirely new variety of pain.

This time, as he felt himself pulling apart, he wished for oblivion.

 **AN: thank you for reading! all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter c;**


	3. 2002

**2002.1**

"Unspeakable Granger, the Minister would like to see you," came a grating, monotone voice.

Hermione Granger glanced over her shoulder, eying the hooded figure behind her. The woman stood silently at the edge of the stone archway. A damp breeze pulled listlessly at the edges of her heavy black cloak, revealing flashes of a long, pale neck.

Unspeakable Crowe.

Although the Unspeakable had been put in charge of Hermione's introduction into the Department of Mysteries, Hermione knew next to nothing about her. While Unspeakables were hardly the most social of people, Hermione at least knew basic background information about her other co-workers. Unspeakable Bones, for instance, was Susan Bones's distant cousin and greatly enjoyed pumpkin pasties. Unspeakable Kim had four children at Hogwarts. Unspeakable Crowe? Unspeakable Crowe was an unsolved mystery.

She'd tried, at first, to get to know the woman; when her early attempts to strike up a conversation were unfruitful, she'd even tried questioning Harry and Ron in the hopes that they might know something about the elusive Unspeakable. When even that had proved futile and her tasks as a new Unspeakable began piling up, Hermione had resolved to tackle the Crowe mystery at a later date.

Her thoughts still on the secretive woman, Hermione carefully placed the jar of Thestral droppings back on the wooden shelf. As the youngest Unspeakable by far at twenty-four years of age, she was often saddled with the more banal tasks. While identifying the volatile potion ingredients that resulted from the Aurors' black market raids was hardly challenging, it was vastly superior to her sycophantic post at the Ministry's Department of Law Enforcement. Instead of stopping criminals or improving the Wizarding World's laws, she'd been relegated to publicity events. After the fifth charity ball and hundredth recitation of her role in the war, Hermione had had enough. She'd turned in her notice and, after a panicked month of job applications and interviews, landed an apprenticeship at the Department of Mysteries.

Tugging the hood over her unruly curls, Hermione followed Unspeakable Crowe through the stone archway. What did Kingsley want? She'd completed her first official task as Unspeakable the week before; perhaps he wanted to evaluate her performance?

A jolt of panic shot through her; did Unspeakables receive _graded_ evaluations of their performances? She quickly ran through her actions, evaluating them critically for any mistakes.

Unspeakables received their tasks through small rolls of parchment, which appeared without warning in the charmed pockets of their cloaks. The Unspeakables guarded their assignments closely. Although it grated on her curiousity, Hermione had become accustomed to the omnipresent atmosphere of secrecy.

She'd had to subdue and nurse a trio of phoenixes afflicted with a slew of deadly viruses. Some wizard had experimented on them, plucking their feathers out and injecting them with a concoction of Muggle and wizard drugs. Although magical creatures weren't usually delegated to the Department of Mysteries, this particular combination of Muggle and wizard forces had resulted in a dangerously volatile curse that left three trainers disfigured before Kingsley transferred the case.

She'd been lucky to escape the ordeal relatively unscathed. The phoenixes hadn't been so fortunate; all but one had died before she could create a proper antidote. Was Kingsley angry that she had had only a 66% survival rate?

Logically, Hermione knew her concerns were unfounded; every Unspeakable underwent a rigorous background check before being hired. The position was a lifelong post; once hired, an Unspeakable could not be fired, thus ensuring the containment of secrets.

"Unspeakable Granger."

Hermione jumped, her eyes darting to the woman standing at the far end of the corridor. Merlin, that woman never failed to unnerve her. Her voice didn't help - it sounded like the Unspeakable was perpetually on the brink of losing her voice. Hermione desperately wanted to gift her with honey or tea, but she didn't want to end up cursed the moment her back was turned.

Crowe tilted her head, baring a small expanse of her sharp chin to the flickering light of the torches lining the hallway. She smiled, and Hermione barely managed to conceal her instinctive flinch. Crowe's smile broadened, and Hermione had the unnerving sense that the woman knew perfectly well the effect she had.

"We are here," Crowe whispered. Hermione frowned; she'd been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn't even realised the cold stone hallways of the Department of Mysteries had given way to the brightly lit carpeted corridors of the Ministry's main building.

Eying the witch warily, Hermione stepped quickly around her and knocked on the Minister's heavy wooden door.

"Minister? It's Hermione."

The door swung open.

Hermione glanced behind her, wondering if Crowe was going to be present at the meeting, but the Unspeakable had vanished.

Narrowing her eyes at the empty corridor, Hermione slowly entered Kingsley's office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The Minister set down a sheath of brittle parchment and motioned towards the leather chair opposite his polished desk. Hermione sat, surreptitiously glancing at the topmost paper. The Minister's hand partially blocked the thin script, but she could make out parts of the middle line -

 _-eports coming in. Isolated incidents, but word is spreading – same symbols carv_ —

"Ms. Granger," Kingsley said.

Hermione looked up quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly.

The Minister raised a brow but thankfully didn't point out her obvious snooping.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," he said solemnly.

Hermione swallowed, smoothing the thick cloth of her cloak.

The Minister selected a roll of parchment from a small pile to his left and, unrolling it with an audible crack, read, "You received an O in Ancient Runes, correct?"

Hermione frowned; what could Kingsley possibly want with her NEWT scores? She'd already been hired for a lifelong position, and she had no intention of switching occupations.

"Er, yes," she said slowly.

Kingsley snapped the parchment closed and nodded in satisfaction. "Professor Babbling speaks very highly of you."

Hermione's brow furrowed. She hadn't spoken to Professor Babbling in years, but she had nothing but the fondest memories of the intelligent woman.

Kingsley was a busy man. From what she'd gathered from Harry and Ron's increasingly frustrated expressions, something major was unfurling, and she'd bet her last quill that it involved the parchment on Kingsley's desk.

 _Same symbols_. Perhaps these symbols were runes? If so, why had Kingsley called her into his office? She'd always received decent marks in the class, but she wasn't vain enough to think she was the most gifted Ancient Runes student Professor Babbling had ever seen.

Hermione nodded towards the sheet of parchment still concealed underneath Kingsley's dark hand.

"Minister, with all due respect, I'm not the best person to ask if you want help with runes. Babbling herself would be infinitely superior; besides, I haven't worked with runes for years now," she said.

Kingsley blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, soon followed by an abrupt, shocked laugh.

"Sharp as ever, aren't you, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione smiled nervously.

The Minister of Magic sobered and, with a significant look, pushed the concealed parchment across the desk.

"I've been getting reports like this for weeks now from my Aurors. This is the fifth one in two months. I've put my best Aurors on the case, but none of them has much experience with runes," he said.

Hermione pulled the parchment towards her, causing a small photograph to fall to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it, her forehead creasing when she saw the image imprinted on the glossy paper.

A woman's thin, emaciated back took up almost all of the photograph. Angry, lurid red curves trailed the ridges of her spine.

Hermione's breath caught, her fingers tightening their hold on her cloak. Aware of Kingsley's watchful gaze, she forced herself to ease her grip and, swallowing thickly, picked up the photograph. Before she could examine the marks, however, the image shifted rapidly, revealing a flash of black as a shoe briefly appeared in the photograph's corner.

"Auror Potter was on the scene," Kingsley said, nodding towards the shoe.

"The scene being…?" Hermione asked.

"Remote village in Ireland."

She frowned at the image; she could hardly study the symbols if it kept shifting like that. She withdrew her wand from the folds of her cloak and tapped the image. The image froze immediately, bringing the horrific wounds into clear focus.

She allowed herself another moment to collect her wits before examining the image once more.

Why were they carved into her flesh? It wasn't necessary; runes were most potent when written with one's wand. The blood certainly did make for a gruesome effect - perhaps the killer had wanted to leave her - or his - mark?

Although at first glance the marks appeared to be scattered randomly, the symbols were roughly arranged in a circular pattern. Whoever had killed the woman had been in a rush; the arc of the horn forming the rune graphorn was crooked, and speckles of dried blood blurred the rune's boundaries. Her frown deepened; runes were dangerous enough even when done properly. A rushed rune was a recipe for disaster. Professor Babbling always said that even she didn't experiment with runes; not much was known about them, and even the old, regularly reproduced runes had a knack for producing unexpected effects.

"Why isn't Professor Babbling here?" Hermione asked distractedly. Odd, the graphorn usually appeared next to an identifying rune, but here it was isolated - perhaps there was an alternate meaning? It usually signified "two," but in this circular context the runes couldn't be interpreted using standard methods.

When Kingsley didn't answer, Hermione paused, acrid dread burrowing deep in her stomach.

She slowly set the photograph down on his desk and, with the level, frigid tone Harry swore inspired more fear than Voldemort himself had (an off-colour joke that always left him the recipient of a well-aimed whack), asked, "Minister, where is Professor Babbling?"

Kingsley sighed heavily, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked frighteningly weary, as if he had emerged from one form of imprisonment to find that he had only entered another.

"She's gone. She was reported missing yesterday."

"Dear Merlin," Hermione breathed. She'd always admired the woman, and it was hard to believe that the stern professor had vanished.

"We've found no evidence tying her disappearance to the murders, but she's our greatest asset when it comes to runes; her knowledge is unparalleled, and without her, the killer has a much greater chance of continuing his work," Kingsley continued.

"Or her," Hermione said automatically.

Kingsley paused, fixing her with an unreadable look. "Or her," he conceded finally.

He gestured to the photograph. "Hermione, Babbling once told me that you were one of her most promising students. We could really use your input."

Hermione nodded and, glancing down at the photograph, bit her lip. "I've never seen anything like it. Runes are usually written in a horizontal or even vertical fashion; these are arranged in a perfect circle. Despite the shape's regularity, the runes themselves are rushed. I'd hypothesise the killer was rushed and botched the ritual. The runes are probably the cause of death."

Kingsley blinked. "You mean, the blood loss from the carvings are the cause of her death."

She shook her head. "No, the cuts are shallow. I suppose cardiac arrest stemming from shock is possible, but sloppy runes are a surefire path to death."

"So you think the death was an accident? If they weren't designed to kill her, what were the runes supposed to do?"

Hermione squinted at the photograph, staring at the lurid markings until her eyes began to blur.

She scowled, raking her hair roughly through her tangled hair. "I can identify only half of these runes, and even then the order doesn't make any sense. I'll need to reference some texts," she said.

Kingsley nodded. "Of course. I'll update the Aurors."

He scrawled a message on a scrap of parchment and, whistling loudly, summoned a sleek black owl.

As Kingsley sent his message, Hermione scanned the woman's pale back, bypassing the bloody runes to focus instead on the limp hand in the corner of the image. If she squinted, she could just make out a dark blur staining her thumbnail. Before she could study it further, however, the image shifted as the shoe came into focus. Silently cursing Harry's ill-timed step, she watched the stain clarify and blur until her eyes began to water.

"I'm sending you and Unspeakable Crowe to the next site," she heard Kingsley say.

Hermione wrenched her eyes from the photograph. "Unspeakable Crowe?"

Kingsley nodded. "She's dealt with ritualistic killings almost exclusively for the past three years. Between the two of you, maybe we'll finally solve this case."

Hermione hid her unease. "Understood," she said and, when Kingsley turned back to the formidable sheath of papers on his desk, left his office.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she felt a familiar weight drop into the pocket of her cloak. Slipping her hand into the pocket, she felt the crackly edge of another roll of parchment.

"So, we're to be partners, then?" came a familiar, rasping voice.

Hermione jerked her hand from her cloak, watching as Unspeakable Crowe emerged from the shadowed nook adjacent to Kingsley's office.

Hermione arched a brow and said coolly, "Yes. I'm headed to the Auror Department now to obtain background information. I'll owl you if I get any leads." Then, catching a glimpse of surprise flash across the Unspeakable's face, Hermione turned on her heel and strode away, a triumphant smile tugging at her lips.

She'd faced opponents far more threatening than Crowe, and she wasn't about to let the woman impede her job performance.

After traveling a good distance away from the Unspeakable, she ducked into a small alcove and, reaching into her pocket, withdrew the crackling roll of parchment.

She frowned.

 _Help him_.

Well, that was redundant; she'd already been planning to help Kingsley.

Tucking the parchment into another pocket, Hermione resumed her brisk pace. She had work to do.

 **AN: Eep it's been a while. I offer my sincerest apologies! I've actually had this chapter written for a while, but I didn't want to post it until I had a bit more written. Thank you all for your patience and your comments! I love reading them :)**


	4. 2002:2

**2002.2**

"Oh, come on, Hermione. You can't tell us even one hint?" Ron complained.

Hermione shook her head, her curls flying dangerously close to the steaming potatoes heaped onto her chipped ceramic plate. "You know I can't, Ron," she said. "It's against Ministry regulations."

The redhead scowled with exaggerated displeasure. "You seemed perfectly happy to break those regulations when you asked me to see those classified files the other day."

Hermione flushed, opening her mouth to retort, before sighing.

Ginny laughed. "He's got you there, Hermione," she said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, looking down to hide the smile pulling at her lips. She shoved another forkful of potatoes - Harry's (only) specialty - into her mouth, watching distractedly as Ron gave Ginny an all-too-exuberant high-five.

Hermione surveyed the dining table contentedly. She'd been worried that, in light of her recent break up with Ron, relations would be awkward, but fortunately things seemed to be relatively normal. Given their busy schedules, it was rare that they could all gather like this, but she was thankful they'd managed to find this time to meet in Harry and Ginny's flat.

Her gaze slid from the now-bickering siblings to the haphazardly arranged pictures taped to every available surface of the flat. Faces old and young smiled at her, some belonging to people only recently deceased. She lingered on an image of a pair of mischievously grinning, gangly twins.

Her throat tightened, and she looked hurriedly back down to her plate. No, it was best not to think of the war.

Feeling a light jab to her arm, Hermione turned, arching her brows when she saw Harry looking intently at her. "What?"

Harry hesitated. "Kingsley told me he'd briefed an Unspeakable about the case," he said lowly. "I'm guessing that Unspeakable was you."

Hermione bit her lip. "Any word on Babbling?" she said.

Harry shook his head. "No, but you remember how she used to take off for days on end back at Hogwarts. Maybe she's just off on another trip," he said doubtfully.

"Babbling's missing?" Ginny said, looking at them.

Hermione cursed inwardly. She shouldn't have asked Harry about Babbling - if her fellow Unspeakables heard that she'd been even _discussing_ anything related to her duties…

"Hermione. She was my professor, too," Ginny said quietly, and Hermione bit her lip, feeling vestiges of guilt wrap sinuously around her throat.

"She's been missing for a few days," Hermione said. "Kingsley said it's too early to sound all the alarms, but…"

"-there's been some mishaps regarding runes," Harry continued.

Ginny paled, her knuckles white around her fork. "Is-is it-"

" _No_. Merlin, no. We all saw him die," Hermione said forcefully.

Ron opened his mouth, and Hermione silenced him with a pointed look.

"He's _dead_ ," she repeated. He had to be - they couldn't keep looking over their shoulders for the man - no, monster - who had hunted them so persistently throughout their childhood. He was dead, and dead men didn't - couldn't - kidnap professors.

She pretended not to notice the look exchanged between her friends.

Soon all that could be heard was the solemn clink of metal against china.

"I'm sure she's alright," Ginny said softly, looking at Hermione.

Hermione smiled wanly. "Yes, I'm sure," she agreed. Beneath the table, her hand smoothed and re-smoothed the silk fabric of her trousers, stopping occasionally to pick at the lace tablecloth.

Sensing the tension, Ron loudly proclaimed his desire for pudding, bringing the conversation back to more light-hearted matters.

Just as Hermione was about to dip her spoon into the treat, however, both Harry and Ron's pockets glowed red. Harry plucked a black device from his robes, his eyes narrowing at the enchanted communications device.

"What is it?" Ginny asked.

Ron stood, waving his wand in the direction of the foyer to summon his robes. "There've been calls of a disturbance in Brighton," he said, pulling on the swathes of thick, black fabric.

Ginny frowned. "A disturbance? Isn't that under the MLE's domain?"

"This one's different," Harry said grimly as he rummaged through the drawers of the dish cabinet. He cursed, slamming shut another drawer, and whirled to face his girlfriend. "Ginny, do you-"

Ginny flicked her wand at the first drawer, sending a small, red velvet pouch flying into Harry's waiting hands. "Thanks," he said sheepishly.

She crossed her arms. "How's it different?" she demanded.

"The witch who called it in reported giant, red runes hanging into the air," Harry said.

Hermione's nails dug into her leg, and she leaped to her feet, her heart racing. Merlin, if she could just get to the site and catch a _glimpse_ of the mystery person, perhaps she could get a better idea of his or her motives and what the runes meant.

Harry glanced at her. "Kingsley wants you to come, too," he said.

Hermione nodded, her mind racing. She ought to have been more prepared - she'd left her book on runes back in her flat. She'd managed to go through the first thirty-two chapters already, but what if she was unable to recognize the runes?

Merlin, she hoped she was ready for this.

"Hermione?"

She turned, swallowing thickly when she saw that Harry and Ron were looking at her expectantly.

"Ready," she said.

Ginny rushed forward, wrapping her in a tight hug.

"You'd better be back later tonight," she said fiercely.

Hermione nodded, forcing a confident grin. "You'd better not eat all the pudding while we're gone," she returned.

Ginny laughed, swiping at her eyes. "No promises," she said.

Harry smiled, his eyes a bit sad, before gingerly upending the pouch's contents over the table. A small, lacquered cat skidded across the wood, coming to a rest before Hermione's plate.

"This Portkey will take us to a location very close to the site of disturbance," Harry said. "We'll need to be ready for anything."

Hermione nodded, slipping her wand from her pocket. She gripped the wood tightly, tracing the familiar grooves of the wand.

"On the count of three," Harry said.

"One."

Her hands were tingling, her heart beating disconcertingly fast. When was the last time she'd been out in the field?

"Two," Ron said from her right.

The two Aurors looked at her expectantly.

She allowed herself a split second to memorize their faces before, extending her arm, she said solemnly, "Three."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The night breathed, hot and foul. The air reeked of sulphur and brimstone, the stench settling deeply into the folds of Hermione's cloak. The suburban street was eerily quiet, the houses dark. Not a single dog barked. The Muggle cars lining the roads looked grotesque in the darkness, resembling hulking growths sprouting from an oiled ground.

Harry beckoned them forward, pointing at a silent, two-story house. "This is the one," he whispered. "Ron and I will go first and scout the area. You cover our backs."

Hermione nodded stiffly, glancing up at the inky dark sky. No runes, red or otherwise, broke up the seemingly endless darkness. She frowned, her unease growing. Something wasn't right.

Ron followed her gaze and shook his head. "Yeah, I don't bloody like this," he muttered.

Then, with a wry smile, he added, "Just like old times, eh?"

Hermione blinked and, hiding a smile, whacked her best friend's arm. Ron laughed before speeding away to join Harry. She followed them, her blood pulsing at her temples, as she gripped her wand with sweaty fingers.

Harry paused before stepping on the porch, waving his wand tentatively at the brick walls. A wave of blue magic flew from his wand, sinking uneventfully into the brick. He waited another moment before, nodding at Ron, leaping nimbly onto the porch.

Hugging the side of the house, Ron crept towards a low-set window to the right of the porch. Peering into the window, he waved Harry forward. With another swish of his wand, Harry unlocked the door and, glancing back at Hermione, pushed the door open with his boot.

Hermione's breath caught as she raised her wand, half-expecting a beast - of what form, she didn't know - to come barreling from within the house.

When nothing happened, she scolded herself for her paranoia - had she or had she not survived months on the run from the most feared wizard on the planet? Was she or was she not Hermione Granger? - before stepping gingerly onto the wooden porch.

She glanced back at the street - still quiet, still bloody eerie - and watched nervously as Harry entered the house, wand held aloft.

The door swung silently shut behind him.

"You okay?"

She jumped, swallowing a startled cry, as she saw Ron standing startlingly close to her. She scowled. "Well, I _was_ okay, Ronald," she hissed.

Ron grinned. With a saucy wink, he slipped past her and through the door, the house swallowing him as seamlessly as it had Harry.

Sighing inwardly and resolving to put some Puking Pastilles in his coffee the next time she saw him, Hermione entered the house, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The smell was even more overpowering inside. The interior of the house, while still dark, seemed to be bathed with an odd, green light. She faced a long, narrow corridor with an equally narrow staircase at the very end. Hearing soft scuffling noises coming from the upper flow, she eyed the stairs warily and, keeping a firm grip on her wand, slowly made her way through the hallway.

Empty picture frames lined the hallway, the gilded frames containing only blank expanses of canvas. She dearly hoped this was just a Muggle art statement and not a sign of something sinister. She couldn't bring herself to consider what would make all the pictures' occupants flee.

Just as her trainer hit the first step, however, she heard a faint, rasping noise to her right. She whirled, breathing heavily, as she stared at the empty corridor behind her. She could feel sweat trickle, icy-cold, down her neck.

 _Merlin, please_. She repeated the words with no real prayer in mind, only thinking _Merlin, please Merlin please Merlin please_ as she slowly, slowly, lifted her foot from the stairs.

The rasping noise came again.

Was she or was she not a Gryffindor?

Casting one last glance up the stairs, Hermione turned to the side wall and, holding her breath, traced her wand along the grooves of the flowered wallpaper.

There was a slight click as her wand brushed against the second lily and, with a sickening rush of sulphur-tainted air, the wall slid open, revealing a dark wooden staircase leading downwards.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to enter that surefire deathtrap without at least _telling_ someone where she'd gone. That would be entirely foolish.

" _Expecto patronum_ ," she murmured quietly, the words just fitting through her gritted teeth. A silver-spun otter slipped fluidly from her wand, turning to twist elegantly around her head. She smiled softly at the sight before nodding towards the stairs. Her Patronus flew up the stairs, where it would hopefully find Harry and Ron.

Well, there was no more stalling. Setting her chin defiantly, Hermione Granger descended the stairs.

The rasping noise was growing louder, and she thought she could make out some wheezing. She silently cast a shield charm, conjuring a translucent blue expanse to protect her front, before descending the last of the stairs. The stairs let out into a small stone room, damp and startlingly cool. She strained to make out the room's contents through the blue of her shield, her eyes widening when she saw a dark form sprawled on the ground.

Her wand was up in an instant, a _Stupefy_ ready on her lips, when the form grunted in pain.

She faltered, her hand jerking back -

She knew that voice.

"Professor Babbling?" she whispered hoarsely.

The form shifted, letting out another strangled groan.

Hermione stepped forward gingerly, squinting as the blue light of her shield illuminated first a mass of dark, matted hair and, finally, the familiar, pudgy nose of her former professor.

"Professor Babbling!" Hermione breathed, rushing forward. Her shield dissolved as she knelt by her professor, her eyes widening when she saw that the woman was naked.

The woman moaned, her eyes fluttering open.

Hermione yanked her hood back, roughly pushing her curly hair away from her face. "It's Hermione Granger," she said.

"M - Ms. Granger," the professor groaned. She sounded as if she were speaking through a mouthful of gravel.

Babbling smiled wanly. "You've joined the Department of Mysteries," she rasped.

Hermione nodded and, slipping her hand into her pocket, withdrew a coin emblazoned with St. Mungo's logo. She tapped the metal with her wand, activating the device, and said, "I've called for some Healers, but -"

"Do you know of the Razaran?" Babbling interrupted.

The _what_? Hermione shook her head, saying, "No, but I need to lift you. I know a few healing spells, and I need to see your wounds."

Babbling shook her head, wrenching herself away from Hermione's touch, and said desperately, " _Listen_. There are millions of universes out there, all running parallel to our own. Only the foulest of magic can rupture the barriers between the-"

Her voice cut off suddenly as Hermione, who had only been half-listening to her former professor's hoarse whispers, gingerly rolled the professor onto her side. Upon seeing the lurid marks on the woman's back, Hermione's lips thinned.

Angry, red runes glistened on Babbling's back, burning an almost complete circle into the wrinkled skin.

What monster had done this? Hermione frowned, comparing the runes to her mental image of the previous victim's runes. Odd - these runes matched them almost exactly. They were just as sloppy as the first runes. If the perpetrator was able to recreate his or her handiwork so exactly, why wasn't he or she able to draw the runes properly?

In fact, the only difference Hermione could discern was the absence of the lower right rune - while the previous victim's runes completed a circle, Professor Babbling's was one rune away from being completed -

Hermione stilled, dread pooling deep in her stomach. The perpetrator was still here.

Professor Babbling's eyes looked wildly at something behind Hermione, her whitened lips opening to emit a garbled noise. Hermione's fingers tightened around her wand, but she forced herself to remain still. Right. So, facts: there was probably a bloodthirsty, crazed murderer behind her. Hermione was alone, as Ron and Harry were still exploring upstairs.

Breathe. One. Two.

 _Three_.

Hermione whirled, flinging a ragged red curse behind her -

Her spell froze in mid-air, the magic acrid and bright, before sinking harmlessly down into the dirt floor. A hooded figure stepped from the shadows. Hermione flung another _Stupefy_ , resummoning her shield the second the curse was cast.

Again, the spell sank uselessly into the floor. She gaped, fear gripping her throat. She'd never seen such powerful magic. She could _feel_ it, twisting menacingly in the air. Merlin, where were Harry and Ron? She could only hope they were safe and far, far away.

The figure, tall and menacing, walked purposefully across the room, only slightly favoring their left side.

She stepped back involuntarily, her foot brushing against her professor's clammy body -

She caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, barely managing to fling herself into the corner before something - another perpetrator? - burst from the stairwell, flinging a fluid arc of silver-grey at the hooded figure.

The hooded figure _howled_ , careening forcefully into the opposite wall before crumpling to the ground.

Shielding her eyes with her arm, Hermione could barely make out the second figure standing serenely in the center of the room. The figure reached up slowly, pulling down her hood to reveal a familiar, sharply angled face.

"Unspeakable Crowe," Hermione breathed. Merlin, she never thought she'd be so happy to see _her_.

"Unspeakable Granger," Crowe said, inclining her head. She showed no sign of having just barreled a powerful witch or wizard into the ground. "Kingsley sent me to ensure your safety."

She looked behind Hermione, her eyes settling on Professor Babbling's prone form.

"Is this the professor?" she asked.

Hermione nodded, still breathing heavily from the recent events, and dispelled her shield.

"Yes, it looks like the perpetrator was interrupted before he or she could finish," she said, glancing at the crumpled figure at the other end of the room.

"We ought to call for Healers. She's in shock," Hermione continued as the Unspeakable approached the unconscious witch.

Crowe knelt, her fingers tracing the runes delicately. She had an odd expression on her face, her dark eyes gleaming in the eerie green light of the room.

"Mm," she said, the sound clicking in her throat.

Hermione flinched and promptly scolded herself for her paranoia. Merlin, she was _still_ letting this woman get to her. Unspeakable Crowe had just saved her life. Hermione's eyes darted to the figure still lying prone on the ground.

"Who _is_ that?" she wondered aloud.

Crowe looked at the unconscious figure, her face twisting in a sudden, savage display of hatred.

"No one good," she spat.

Hermione watched as Crowe reached into the depths of her robes, withdrawing a slim blade that seemed to gleam even in the absence of light. She blinked, sure it was a trick, and the blade was dull grey once more.

"What is that?" she asked, feeling unease pool once more.

Crowe ran her hand reverentially across the blade, and, to Hermione's great confusion, her fingers passed easily through the blade. It was like the weapon had no substance at all, like it wasn't a knife at all but something startlingly different.

"What-"

Crowe's head snapped towards her as the Unspeakable bared her teeth in a savage smile.

Not looking away from Hermione, Crowe lifted the blade with one slim hand, her black, black hair twisted into writhing cords, and plunged it deep within Professor Babbling's back.

" _What are you doing?_ " Hermione shrieked. She surged forward, her wand moving frantically to work a spell, a jinx, _anything_ to stop the horror unfolding before her eyes -

Crowe kicked out fluidly, her leg catching Hermione straight in the soft part of her stomach. Hermione slammed against the wall, her spine slamming against a protruding wooden plank. Her wand clattered to the ground near Crowe's feet. Hermione doubled over, tears springing to her eyes, as she watched Crowe carve the final rune in her professor's back.

" _NO_!"

Babbling's body surged upward, hovering in midair, as blinding red light blazed out of her back, spreading from the runes to trace jagged lines all over her naked flesh.

Crowe laughed, her eyes wide and reverential, as the professor began spinning, her body awash with scarlet.

Clutching at her stomach with one hand, Hermione flung herself forward once more, trying desperately to fight, to claw, to do anything but die helpless -

Crowe looked at her, her raven black hair floating behind her and her eyes glowing red above the strong planes of her cheekbones. She tipped her head back, opening her mouth wider than Hermione thought humanly possible, and the red light pooling around Professor Babbling rushed into the Unspeakable's body.

It was over in seconds, mere fragments of time -

Babbling fell with a thud, darkly translucent against the dirt floor.

Crowe _glowed_ , her mouth shining scarlet.

Hermione ran, lowering her famed head, the head that was said would take her far, to use as a weapon, a battering ram, _anything_ to stop her -

"Darling, stop," Crowe said.

Hermione froze, crashing to the ground at the abrupt movement. She began to weep, kneeling before this woman with the voice of honey, of silk, of _rapture_ -

Crowe stroked Hermione's tangled hair benevolently, and Hermione watched, wide-eyed, at the miracle before her.

"Please," she begged, not knowing exactly what she was asking for.

Crowe smiled. "Ah, manners. How lovely," she crooned, shooting another glare at something behind Hermione.

Silent tears pooled down Hermione's cheeks. She'd do anything for this woman if she'd only keep blessing her with her voice.

Crowe lifted her blade, tapping it thoughtfully against Hermione's cheek. "I wasn't planning on sending another, but you _are_ positively delightful...what a pity that I have to kill you," Crowe mused, her words spilling smoothly from her lips.

Hermione sobbed silently, Crowe's threat not registering through her mental fog. She reached upward, her fingers trembling, as she tried to convince the woman to take her with her, to never leave her, to let Hermione serve her if she'd only keep speaking. Her hand tugged inadvertently at the neckline of Crowe's robes, revealing the barest hint of an angry red mark hugging the curve of her pale collarbone.

Crowe opened her mouth again and Hermione leaned forward, eager to hear more.

Something clattered behind them. Crowe's eyes narrowed, and the Unspeakable whirled, her arm arcing forward -

And then Crowe, too, was hurled to the wall, the blade clattering to the ground by Hermione's wand.

Hermione _roared_ as she saw the same figure from before attacking the woman with the rapturous voice. She bent, her fingers scrabbling for the knife. Perhaps she could help Crowe. Perhaps, if she could just get the knife, she could prevent this damned stranger from halting Crowe's speech.

Her heart quickened when she saw the Unspeakable lying, wheezing, on the ground. The figure turned swiftly, not looking at Crowe, and crossed the room in two long strides.

The stranger stood before her wordlessly, his face still shrouded in the shadow of his hood, before bending down. He knocked her hand aside easily and, trembling slightly, picked up the knife. He - for, at this close distance, she could tell the stranger was definitely male - stared at the knife, his bloodied knuckles white around the hilt.

Although she could not see his face, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. His hands shook at his sides, and he looked so intent, so _desperate_ that she almost - _almost_ \- forgot the intoxicating bliss of Crowe's voice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, and she recoiled at the sheer _ugliness_ of the sound. How could he compare to Crowe? Crowe, who was lying, helpless, because of his actions. His hand crept forward, reaching for her mass of hair -

She snarled, biting at his fingers. He snatched his hand away and, with a single, fluid motion, used his other hand to sink the blade into the expanse between her collarbones. She looked down disbelievingly and had just enough time to register its odd properties - _not solid after all_ , for it passed without effect through her skin.

She watched, stunned, as he dragged the weapon down into a long, arcing curve -

And screamed.

 **AN: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! I love reading all of your comments :)**


	5. Kingdom

**Kingdom.1**

"Hermione!"

Hermione Granger jolted upwards, a scream tearing, half-formed, from her throat. Her hands clawed futilely at coarse sheets, bile rising as she struggled to identify her surroundings.

"Hermione!" a pair of small hands gripped her arms, forcing her down as she thrashed, her brown eyes wide and unseeing. A wave of black hair appeared, mottled through with white spots that spun at dizzying speeds, and Hermione moaned, trying to escape -

She was dimly aware of someone else rushing into the room.

"Get off of her!"

The hands released their grip on her arms, and slowly, slowly Hermione stilled as the room swam into focus. She stared at the ceiling, which was low and off-white.

Where was she?

"Are you alright?"

She knew that voice - Ginny.

Ginny!

Hermione bolted into a seated position, her hand flying to her chest as she remembered the events of last night. When her hand came back dry, she let out a half-strangled noise. She was in an unfamiliar room, dim and unadorned. The only light came from a flickering wooden torch mounted to the wall and a small, square window situated above a wooden desk. Perhaps Ron and Harry had found her and brought her to the nearest inn?

"Where are Harry and Ron?" Hermione demanded.

She met Ginny's bright brown eyes before looking at her friend's clothes. Hermione's brows furrowed as she took in Ginny's finely spun wool gown and the jauntily placed ostrich feathers protruding from her bonnet. She caught a glimpse of Ginny's freckled neck as the woman blushed furiously, ducking her head. Her neck - Crowe!

She was even more surprised when, after slipping her hand underneath the odd, scratchy cotton of her nightgown, she failed to find a gaping wound. The man had stabbed her - of that, she was certain. Her finger caught on a slight ridge just below her collarbone, and she hissed in surprise. She craned her neck, catching a glimpse of a dark, angry red marking, and her stomach dropped. A rune.

Fighting panic, Hermione forced herself to assess her situation in a logical manner. This rune had obviously transported her into an elaborate hallucination. Aside from this marking and her foreign surroundings, she felt almost perfectly normal, save for a nagging empty sensation deep in her chest, like some unidentifiable yet vital piece of her had vanished.

Ginny's cheeks were flushed a delicate red. "Why would I know where Lord Harr-er, they are," she spluttered. "That would be improper!"

Someone giggled from the other side of the bed, and Hermione looked wildly at the second occupant of the room - Parvati? She hadn't seen the woman for years, now; why was Parvati appearing in her hallucination?

"You'd like to know where Lord Harry is, though, wouldn't you?" Parvati teased, her mouth pulled into a mischievous grin. Although she was dressed in the same, oddly medieval attire as Ginny, she otherwise looked the same as always.

Ginny's blush deepened, and she scowled angrily in reply.

Hermione watched the exchange with wide eyes. What in bloody Merlin's beard was going on?

Hermione surreptitiously pinched herself underneath the covers, trying to suppress a surge of panic when her two companions did not disappear. Was this an elaborate enchantment and, if so, why had Crowe conjured Ginny and Parvati? None of this made any sense at all.

She took another deep breath. "Where am I?" she asked, her voice trembling only slightly.

Ginny and Parvati glanced at each other.

Ginny leaned forward, placing a cool, freckled hand against Hermione's forehead. "We're in the castle for Princess Lavender's wedding, of course. Are you sure you're alright?"

Hermione closed her eyes. Counted to ten. Logic would help. Logic always helped. She forced herself to recount everything she knew.

Facts: Ginny and Parvati were in her - no, she saw two other beds along the other wall, so their - room. Ginny and Parvati were dressed in medieval garb. Ginny and Parvati had either suddenly become fantastic actors, or they were telling the truth and they really were in a bloody castle for Princess Lavender Brown's wedding.

Facts: Hermione Granger had officially lost it. Cause? Perhaps the stress of her job - Ron had always joked that she was going to work herself to her grave. She'd resented him slightly for those comments, but perhaps he'd been right, after all.

Her hand touched the mark on her chest again, and her stomach soured. She'd almost prefer the other explanation - at least then she could have prescribed herself rest or a month in the Caribbean. No, her reality was something far more frightening.

Sensing Ginny's worried gaze, Hermione forced a smile. "Right, the wedding!" she said, albeit a bit too loudly.

"Perhaps you ought to stay in bed, Hermione," Parvati said. "We can ready Princess Lavender for the day ourselves."

Hermione was sorely tempted to say yes. She wanted desperately to hide underneath the covers until she was returned to her home. She, however, needed answers, and so, setting her chin resolutely, she said, "No, I'm fine. Let's go."

She climbed out of bed gingerly, expecting her ribs to protest, and frowned when the movement came unhindered. The stranger had stabbed her; why was she not experiencing the ramifications of that action?

With Ginny and Parvati's aid, she slipped, with considerable difficulty, into a similarly unwieldy dress ("Er, must have slept wrong - I'm very clumsy today").

As they walked down the stone corridor, Hermione's mind worked furiously to create logical explanations for her sudden transport into this bizarre world. Perhaps she was in a coma - she'd read several case studies of wizards who, once woken up from a magical coma, had reported living out entire lives as unicorns or other similarly odd entities. She could be in St. Mungo's at this very moment.

Still, that didn't explain the appearance of Ginny and Parvati. The comas reported often were completely new and contained no aspects of the wizards' prior lives.

More likely, this was a product of the runes - or the knife. She shivered, remember the searing pain of the blade - and, worse, her utter helplessness when faced with Crowe's voice.

Merlin, she'd been willing to do anything for Crowe. Hermione didn't know what she'd do - what she could do - if faced with the woman again. She glanced nervously around her, relaxing only very slightly when she saw only the occasional harried-looking servant.

Ginny and Parvati, thankfully, seemed to know where to go. She followed them dutifully as they led her through countless winding hallways. From their excited chatter, she gleaned that Lavendar was, indeed, the eldest daughter of the King. Hermione, Ginny, and Parvati were apparently Lavender's ladies-in-waiting, and they were to ready her for her wedding early the next morning. The castle, according to Ginny and Parvati, was tense with the impending arrival of Lavender's betrothed and his father, the King of the neighboring land, as the two kingdoms had had tense relations for years. From the sound of it, it seemed like both were on the verge of war and that this marriage was a last-minute effort at peace.

Hermione caught sight of a room full of books and candles through an open doorway and, her heart racing, quickly made mental note of its location. She glanced at her two companions again before coughing loudly. "Oh, I haven't seen the library in a while!" she said.

Ginny glanced at the room. "Oh, that," she said dismissively. "You're there all the time; I don't know who you're trying to fool."

Hermione laughed a bit too loudly and sighed inwardly with relief - so she was able to use the library, then. The reminder that there had been another Hermione, a Hermione who apparently used this library all the time, was disconcerting. Where was this Hermione now? Would she return when Hermione was hopefully returned to her proper world? Or would she remain gone forever?

She frowned, her head aching dully at the conundrum. She'd have to think on the matter later.

They came to a stop before a set of ornately carved double doors. Muffled, feminine shrieks came from within, and Ginny rolled her eyes. "Right, let's do this," she whispered and, taking a deep breath, knocked firmly.

"You're late!" came the answering yell.

Ginny pushed the door open, curtseying deeply before stepping into the room. Hermione copied the movement awkwardly, wobbling slightly on her way up.

The room was easily twice the size of theirs and housed a double bed with richly embroidered red silk covers. Two small stained-glass windows let in richly yellow light, which pooled lazily onto a thick, scarlet and gold carpet. A heart-wrenchingly familiar crest was emblazoned on a thick tapestry hanging beside the bed - Gryffindor. Hermione gazed at the lion longingly, thinking of all the nights she'd spent in the comfort of her dorm at Hogwarts.

"What took you so long?" came a shrill cry.

Hermione wrenched her gaze away from the tapestry, her eyes widening when she saw the beautiful woman seated in the center of the room. Her curly blonde hair was coiled into perfect ringlets, and a delicate band of gold graced her forehead. Her expression, however, was utterly dour.

Still, she was alive. Hermione stared at the woman, her heart aching for the dead Lavender Brown in her own world. Lavender Brown had died a hero, and Hermione had always regretted never giving her the chance she deserved.

"Apologies, Your Highness," Parvati murmured.

Lavender sniffed. "Well, don't be late for my wedding day."

Ginny rolled her eyes from behind Lavender. "Of course not, Your Highness," she said, brushing invisible dust off of Lavender's mauve gown.

Lavender looked down at her folded hands, her brow furrowing. "Thank you," she said quietly, her shoulders slumping somewhat.

Ginny paused, raising her brows at Hermione.

Hermione looked at Lavender, her heart sinking when she saw how young and fragile the girl looked. Hermione was by no means the world's expert on medieval history, but even she knew this marriage was probably arranged. Hell, even the modern Wizarding aristocrats still had arranged marriages.

She reached out tentatively, resting a hand on Lavender's shoulder. "We'll be here for you," she said quietly. "Always."

Lavender smiled, her eyes watery.

"Besides, if he turns out to be awful, Ginny casts a mean Bat Bogey," Hermione continued jokingly.

Silence.

"-a what?" the princess demanded, eyes wide.

Hermione gestured helplessly. "You know, when your bogies turn into bats," she said slowly. Perhaps they had a different name for the jinx - when had the jinx even been invented? Maybe she was too early.

Still, that didn't explain the frightened expression on Ginny's face. "Hermione hasn't been feeling well, Your Highness," she said, turning hurriedly to Lavender.

Lavender stared at Hermione, her brown eyes narrowed, as her hand reached up to clasp something around her neck - a cross, Hermione realised with a start.

Oh. Oh.

Several choice words - her Ginny would be proud - ran through her head. Right, so this world lacked magic. In other words, Hermione had almost gotten herself killed; she doubted witches would be received well.

"That was an, uh, unfortunate joke, Your Highness," she said, hurrying to cover her mistake.

Lavender frowned, opening her mouth -

"Lavender!" came a booming voice.  
Ginny and Parvati immediately executed twin curtsies. Hermione followed only a second later, peering up at the huge man striding towards them. He, too, wore a crown, but his was richly encrusted with rubies and just barely perched on his wild mass of red curls. He carried a sword at his hip, and Hermione gasped, recognizing its engraved hilt. The Sword of Gryffindor.

Hermione resisted the urge to let out a hysterical laugh. Well, if her dream had the power to bring back Lavender, why not throw in Godric bloody Gryffindor in for good measure?

"Father!" Lavender cried, throwing her arms around the founder of Gryffindor House.

Godric laughed, patting her head lovingly. "How is my only daughter doing?"

She pulled away, pouting. "I'm well, Father. Are they here yet? You said they'd arrive two days ago."

Godric's expression darkened. "They will arrive today," he said firmly, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

Hermione watched the exchange silently. Was the other family Slytherin? There was obviously ill blood between the two.

A clamor of metal against metal and beating hooves rose from outside, and Godric strode to the window, his face grim. When he turned to face his daughter, however, his face was as jovial as ever. "See? They're here already!"

Lavender smiled stiffly, her face pale, as she moved to the window. "Wonderful," she said, looking nervous.

"Wonderful, indeed," Ginny whispered darkly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Godric Gryffindor sat on his throne, his right index finger idly tapping the gilded hilt of his sword. A lesser ruler would have been easily dwarfed by the large, golden grandeur of the throne, but the opulent seat merely enhanced Godric's imposing physical presence.

Lavender sat on the considerably smaller throne beside her father, but she, unlike Godric, could only stare at the ground.

Hermione, for her part, stood in between Ginny and Parvati at the far wall with the lords and ladies of the Gryffindor court. No one spoke. Everyone was too busy staring at the double doors at the far end of the throne room, waiting in tense anticipation for the arrival of the snakes.

The doors banged open, and Hermione flinched, her heart in her throat. What if Crowe was with them? She half-feared and half-wished for the woman to appear, for she both feared and needed the witch. Without her, Hermione was stuck in this magicless world, for with each passing moment she was more and more unable to deny the reality of her situation.

This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a coma. This was real, and Hermione Granger was, without her magic, in a very poor situation. Professor Babbling's words echoed jeeringly through her mind: a million universes out there.

She pushed these thoughts from her mind, instead scanning the solemn, silver and emerald clad crowd as they spilled into the room. The stately procession reminded her of the equally pompous processions of her fourth year at Hogwarts - how innocent she'd been, even then. That had been almost a full decade ago, and years of war and age had changed her.

The crowd of Slytherins parted, revealing two figures. A hawk-nosed man with a black mustache and long, equally dark hair pulled into an elegant ponytail strode forward, his heavy brows lowered over shrewd black eyes. So this was Salazar Slytherin.

Despite her perilous circumstances, it was all Hermione could manage to prevent herself from rushing forward to ask Salazar and Godric about their lives. Yes, these weren't the two men who had helped create her Hogwarts, but they were still Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor. When else was she going to have the chance to speak with them? She wanted to pick their brains, to learn everything they had to offer -

Her gaze landed on the lean man standing beside Salazar, and her breath caught. Not, as Parvati's did, because the man was terribly good looking. No, it was because she knew him. Or, at least, she knew him from photos and from her Ginny's frightened retellings.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Voldemort.

The man gazed proprietorially around the throne room, his gaze scanning the crowds of nobles. As he neared her place, Hermione tensed, her mouth curling unconsciously into a snarl. Her hand reached automatically for the wand that wasn't there, and she fought to suppress the overwhelming panic threatening to overtake her. A half-strangled noise escaped her throat, and he paused, his dark eyes narrowing slightly when he saw her.

Did - did he know her?

No, that was impossible. Even if Voldemort knew her, Riddle didn't.

Indeed, Riddle's gaze was on Parvati in the next moment - a fluke, then. She'd imagined it.

Still, she couldn't quite shake her unease.

"Salazar," Godric boomed.

Salazar bowed mockingly. "Godric," he greeted. He looked at Lavender, who was staring, open-mouthed, at Riddle.

Salazar smiled, his lips thinning in satisfaction. "This must be Lady Lavender," he said.

Lavender started, standing clumsily to duck into a curtsy. "Yes, Your Majesty," she said, regaining her composure. She looked the very picture of royalty in her floor-length gown and golden crown.

Salazar's smile widened, and he gestured lazily to the man at his side. "This is Prince Thomas," he said grandly.

Riddle bowed. "A pleasure," he said silkily, peering at Lavender from underneath sooty black lashes.

Parvati sighed, and Hermione resisted the urge to stomp on her heel. Didn't they see how fake he was? His excessive charm made her want to vomit. Then again, Hermione reminded herself, this version of Parvati didn't know what horrors Voldemort had committed in her own world. Perhaps she was being unfair to this Tom Riddle - perhaps he was good, and kind, and really only wished to raise a herd of kittens in peace.

She stifled a snort at the ludicrousness of that, reddening slightly when the sound drew Riddle's gaze. Hermione looked immediately at her feet and, when she chanced another glance, was relieved to see that the man had moved on.

As Riddle began to compliment Lavender's appearance, even Hermione had to admit that he was frighteningly charming - so charming, in fact, that if she hadn't been aware of his crimes, she, too, might have been enamored. She briefly remembered her infatuation with Lockhart and winced.

Riddle's eyes flicked towards hers once more. Hermione looked away, her cheeks flushing. She'd have to be careful. She needed to remain unnoticed while she searched for any books on runes - or, if that failed to be fruitful, Crowe.

Parvati tugged at her sleeve. Seeing the crowd slowly filtering out of the throne room - how long had she been standing there for? - she flashed Parvati a grateful smile and, collecting her skirts in her hands, said, "I think I will retire to bed. I'm still not feeling well."

She brushed off Parvati's offers of warm beverages, and, after waiting for the throne room to empty completely, hurried towards the library. As she retraced her steps, hugging close to the stone walls of the castle to better avoid notice, a flash of - something - caught her eye. Hermione paused, staring widely at the wall-length, stained glass window. The hallway was empty, as most of the servants and all of the two courts were gathering in the Great Hall for lunch.

Something shifted again through the vibrant red of the window, and Hermione caught a glimpse of something horrid - a flash of teeth, a bloodied jaw - and gasped. She crept towards the window, holding her breath, and leaned carefully against the cool glass, her eyelashes brushing the scarlet surface -

Through the window, she spotted the edge of a dark forest. Barren trees scraped the crimson sky, and shadows spilled from between the peeling trunks. She felt her heart pounding as she scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. When she saw nothing, she slid reluctantly from the window, a deep crease appearing between her brows. Perhaps she'd imagined it.

Perhaps she hadn't.

She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. _I can do this_ , she reminded herself. Then, lifting her skirts, she ran to the library.

Scrolls and books, at least, were constant. She allowed herself a moment to breathe in the familiar smell of parchment, her eyes fluttering shut. If she focused, she could pretend she was back in the Hogwarts library, about to finish another too-long Potions assignment -

She swiped angrily at her eyes.

"Come on, Hermione. You don't have time to wallow in self-pity," she muttered.

She strode briskly towards the ledger and, running her finger down the cramped script, searched for anything related to runes.

When that failed to prove fruitful, she searched instead for related, not-so-obviously-magical terms.

Nothing.

Well, perhaps the ledger was inaccurate. She surveyed the staggering stacks of scrolls lining the room determinedly and, grabbing a quill from a jar, began to work.

 **AN: Thank you very much for reading/reviewing/etc! Your support means the world to me :)**


	6. Kingdom:2

**Kingdom.2**

Prince Thomas, heir to the throne of House Slytherin, twirled the silver cup delicately between his fingers, quietly observing the wine-fuelled merriment occurring around him. Lively swells of music filled the hall, and the torches cast a warm glow on the opulently dressed noblemen and women as they dined on roasted meat and wine.

He scanned their ranks, observing with considerable distaste how the Gryffindor court conducted themselves with little shame. It was a wonder that the Kingdom of Gryffindor had existed for so long. They had little discipline and seemingly lacked any sense of self-respect. He watched, lip curling, as King Godric Gryffindor barked out a laugh, his chest heaving, at the head of the table. He was so very loud and so very obnoxious.

Thomas cast a glance at the other end of the table, where King Salazar Slytherin eyed Godric with evident scorn. Sensing his gaze, Salazar tipped his silver wine cup towards Thomas, and Thomas mirrored the gesture. He tipped his own cup to his lips, coating his tongue with the cloying liquid, and watched as the King did the same.

Salazar looked pointedly away, dismissing the man, and Thomas felt felt his hands tighten around the cup, the metal engravings biting deep into his skin. Salazar Slytherin had only begrudgingly made him his heir when it had become clear that his eldest son, Morfin, had died, leaving him with no choice but to name the bastard child of his pathetic daughter, Merope, as his heir.

People sometimes whispered of Merope's indiscretions, of Tom's mysterious, common born father. Those people often disappeared.

"Prince Thomas?"

He shifted in his seat, eying Godric's daughter warily. She looked at him hopefully, her cheeks flushed pink with wine. She was pretty enough, but he still chafed at the thought of their impending marriage. Here was yet another reminder of Salazar's power. Crown prince or not, Thomas will still firmly under the control of his grandfather's will.

"The dance tonight will have performers from House Hufflepuff," the girl said excitedly, trying in vain to start a conversation. "They're wonderful singers."

Hufflepuff. If there was any group he found more infuriating than Gryffindors, it was the Hufflepuffs. Still, he had to keep the daughter happy. Salazar had made sure to make _that_ perfectly clear. Feeling Salazar's watchful gaze, he forced a smile.

"How wonderful," he murmured, and Lavender blushed.

Really, it was almost too easy. It was stunning how much one could get away with if one had a pleasing face. Dozens of women had fairly tripped over themselves in their haste to please him, and he'd used this advantage many times.

He frowned slightly, remembering the plain-faced woman who had glared at him so angrily earlier that morning. He was fairly sure he hadn't slept with her or even met her, so her surely unfounded anger incensed him.

"Lady Lavender, might I ask you a question?"

Lavender beamed, her eyes gleaming. "Yes?"

"What is the name of your lady's maid? The one with the...sizable mop of hair?"

Her expression fell somewhat, and Thomas hid a self-satisfied smirk. The jealous ones were the easiest to manipulate. "That was Hermione. She's common-born, you know," she whispered, sounding as if she expected Thomas to be scandalised.

"Ah," Thomas said, adopting the expected expression of righteous pity. He wondered how Lavender would react if he told her that his father had been the lowest of peasants. "How good of you to take her in."

Lavender nodded primly and, lowering her voice conspiratorially, added, "Her parents are dead. They opposed the wrong sort, and they were killed years ago."

How interesting. Perhaps her parents had died at the hands of Slytherin forces? But, no, she hadn't looked at Salazar with the same hatred; his stomach soured as he remembered the awe that had fairly _glowed_ on her face when she'd looked at his grandfather.

His hand tightened around his cup, his mood darkening rapidly. He would find this Hermione, and he would demand answers.

* * *

A dozen spent quills littered the stone floor, an overturned ink bottle spilling a deep black liquid into the feathers. Several rolls of parchment were stacked neatly at the far end of the central wooden table. A small hand mottled black with ink stretched forward and neatly placed another roll on the top of the growing pyramid.

Hermione Granger allowed herself a long, back-cracking stretch. She rubbed at her eyes, fighting a yawn, and looked blearily at her handiwork. Although she hadn't managed to find anything explicitly tied to magic, there had been some interesting philosophical texts on the possibility of the parallel nature of space. The writings were entirely based on conjecture and lacked any scientific backing, but it was a decent start.

Some of the material she'd found had been fascinating, really. Without the cloud of prior advancements to color their thinking, the philosophers of this time – world? – had created several interesting theories, the most promising belonging to a philosopher by the name of Ignatus Stone.

Ignatus Stone had written several long treatises on what he called the parallel realities of life. According to Stone, each life lived ran in parallel with countless other lives, all with differences varying from the smallest of changes – a tendency to favor sweets over savory, for instance – to monumental alterations like one's continued or discontinued existence. Most interesting – and troubling – of all, Ignatus Stone was convinced that, if planned properly, one could access the closest alternate reality through a carefully planned death. This last theory, predictably enough, had apparently been quite controversial, as she'd only managed to find the vaguest of hints towards the ideology, and even then the scrawled comments had been nothing short of condemning.

She didn't know what Ignatus Stone's fate had been, but his writings stopped abruptly after the first mention of his theory on mortality. Remembering Lavender's visceral reaction to her earlier slip up, Hermione frowned. Stone had probably been killed for his blasphemous writings on death.

Her fingers went, unbidden, to her chest, pressing against the thick fabric of her embroidered dress to feel the sharp outline of her collarbone. Logically, she knew she ought to be dead. The man – whoever he was – had stabbed her. She'd seen the blade plunge into her chest – worse, she'd _felt_ every agonizing inch.

Perhaps she was dead, and she was currently in some odd sort of afterlife. Hermione's gaze flicked to the cramped room. There were barely any hard-bound books in this collection, and those that were bound were covered in soft, stained leather. Although there were more rolls of parchment, the scrolls were well-worn at the edges and showed signs of water damage. Well, if this was her afterlife, it was a poor one. She quite hoped that her afterlife would be home to limitless books and an endless supply of tea.

She shook her head. No, this couldn't be a traditional afterlife – after all, why would Ginny, Parvati, Harry, Ron – why would they all be here? She hadn't _seen_ Harry and Ron, yet, but from Ginny and Parvati's excited whisperings, she knew they existed. The more she saw of this strange world, the more she was convinced that Professor Babbling and this Stone fellow were correct – this was no afterlife.

 _A million different universes_. As Hermione began to grasp the sheer scope of her predicament, she felt traitorous tears begin to burn in her eyes. How was she ever to return home? Even if she did figure out a way to leave this world, how was she to pick _her_ world out from millions? She had no magic, here.

Well, wallowing in self-pity would do her no good.

Resolving to locate more interpretations of Stone's theory and any mentions of Crowe's strange, depthless blade, Hermione Granger scooped up her sizable stack of parchment and, with practised ease, stuffed the rolls into the small, unadorned satchel she'd taken from her bedside table earlier that morning. It was no substitute for her beaded, magically expanded bag, of course, but it was sturdy and suitably concealed its contents from curious eyes.

She hoisted the bag onto her shoulder and, after swiftly checking the room to ensure that she had placed everything back in its rightful place, strode to the room's exit. Just as she was passing through the stone archway, however, she collided into something solid and warm.

"Sorry," she muttered, struggling to steady her bag, which, at the sudden movement, had transformed into a rather formidable projectile.

A pair of pale hands caught the bag before it could spill its contents on the dark stone floor.

She followed the path of the long, elegant fingers to the finely embroidered black sleeves encircling the man's wrists. On the chest of his shirt, located right over his heart, was a coiled snake stitched in silver. She chanced a glance up, catching a glimpse of his intent stare, and cursed inwardly. Of all the Slytherins, she'd had to run, quite literally, into Tom Riddle.

She swallowed the automatic "thanks" threatening to fall, treacherously, from her tongue, and instead gave a semi-courteous nod of acknowledgment.

The man – even more handsome this close, she noted with considerable annoyance – blinked, a brief flash of confusion marring his otherwise blank expression. He had probably expected her to fawn over him. Bollocks - she'd have to be more careful; he seemed frighteningly perceptive, and she couldn't risk drawing his attention with her glares. She took a deep breath and forced a passably pleasant smile. "Thank you, Prince Thomas."

"Please," he said softly, his lips pulling into a crooked smile. "The fault is mine."

Hermione swallowed a scoff. Yes, she thought, the fault was certainly his. She'd thought herself – and the world – rid of the monster, and here he was again, unnervingly well-liked by all and, worse still, _alive_.

This thought summoned another, far more terrifying, idea: was there a world, somewhere out there, that had Voldemort winning? A world where the Boy Who Lived perished under the Dark Lord's ruthless hold? She couldn't quite hide the shiver that ran down her spine at that thought.

She moved to pass the man, halting abruptly when he shifted slightly to block her path. A curl of fear writhed deep in her stomach. She had no reason to believe Tom Riddle was any less evil in this world, and if he was anything like the monster that had haunted them for so many years…

"What is a lady's maid doing with so many scrolls?" Riddle asked, his dark eyes intent. Hermione cursed inwardly; the blasted man had felt the lumps in her bag and correctly discerned its contents. She would have to be careful in choosing her response, for she risked piquing his interest further if she was too flippant. Even the most lavish of attire couldn't hide the underlying coldness, the _savagery_ , lurking within his gaze. _I will discover each of your secrets_ , it promised. _And, when you possess nothing of your own, I will destroy you_.

No, it was better to be underestimated. She forced what she hoped was an embarrassed expression and, offering a timid smile and ducking her head, said haltingly, "I'm – beg pardon, your Grace, but I am – am collecting all I can to prepare my lady for – for the _wedding night_."

Riddle stared at her, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "And what titillating information, pray tell," he said dryly, "can be found in the Bishop's library?"

Bollocks. She'd _wondered_ why there were so many religious texts, but she'd assumed the abundance was merely a byproduct of the obviously medieval time. Her mind worked furiously to create a believable explanation. "My lady seeks methods to remain true to her Lord," she lied. "She – she wishes to preserve her purity, if not in body then in spirit."

Riddle arched a dark brow. "Interesting," he said. "I had thought my betrothed to have a far different reputation, but it appears I am mistaken."

This time, Hermione's blush was real. "Er – yes," she said, clutching the bag to her chest. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

To her great relief, Riddle inclined his head and stepped smoothly aside, waving her forward with a gallant gesture of his arm.

She scurried past the man, back rigid, and promptly stumbled over something, sending her bag and its carefully packed contents spilling onto the stone floor. Her limbs smarting, she pushed herself up roughly, looking back to cast an accusing look at the man. He'd tripped her, she was sure of it. Riddle, however, merely wore an expression of innocent horror.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his brows furrowed in concern. Prat. He knew exactly what he had done, but what could she do? If she accused him of tripping her, she would only draw his attention for being outspoken. Blast it all. Without waiting for an answer, Riddle knelt deftly and began gathering the scrolls, careful – she noticed – to turn each roll slightly so that he could scan the first few lines of each.

Her stomach went cold. If he suspected who she really was, he would never leave her alone. And if – no, _when_ – she returned home, he'd surely want to return with her…and she couldn't unleash another Voldemort onto her world. _One_ had proven nearly fatal. She could only imagine what a second could do.

She surged forward, moving to snatch the rolls from his grasp. She'd risk offending the heir to the Slytherin crown if it meant stopping him from discovering the truth.

"That's _private_ ," she said, trying to pull the scrolls from his reluctant hands. In her haste, however, her bare hands brushed his, and her eyes went wide.

Dear Merlin.

Every hair on her arms rose as something utterly intoxicating swelled in her chest. She felt as if she'd been living in a world of drab monotone and only now had reached a world of sharp, dizzyingly vibrant colour. The nagging absence that had dogged her incessantly, leaving only a sense that she was finally where she belonged, that she now possessed the power – for that _was_ the correct word for this sensation, _power_ – to do anything she wished.

 _Anything she wished._

Without even realizing that she was gripping onto the heir of Slytherin for dear life and that he appeared to be doing the same, Hermione took a deep breath, still half-drunk with the sensation, and thought fiercely, _Avis_.

To her utter disappointment, no bird appeared - not even the smallest canary. Instead, she saw something completely different. If she squinted, she could just make out shimmering, whisper-fine threads glinting in the flickering light of the torches bolted to the walls. Hermione reached out a hand automatically and, holding her breath, made to touch the closest one, a dark blue thread that stretched between a cobblestone and the stained glass window. Her hand passed through it without resistance, and she was left feeling strangely disappointed. The feeling, however, didn't last, for she was too full of this newfound _wonder_ to care.

"Dear God," she heard Riddle murmur, his voice rough. She looked at him, then, and saw that he was staring at their joined hands, his dark eyes gleaming hungrily.

The sight was enough to knock sense back into her, and she yanked her hand away before he could protest. Immediately, she felt the loss of it, the dull, empty ache in her chest returning with a vengeance. She clutched her hand to her chest, looking at the red marks left from Riddle's grip. When she looked at Riddle, she saw the matching marks where her fingers had dug into his skin. The emptiness was overwhelming in its pressing urgency. She almost wept at the loss, but, seeing Riddle's enraged expression, scooped up as many rolls of parchment as she could and ran, her footsteps ringing hollow in the narrow passageway.

She was so intent on escaping that she didn't notice the half-balding bird that flapped listlessly at the ceiling...or the shifting hand that, plunging out of the plaster wall, crushed the bird between its smoking fingers.

 **AN: Thanks all for reading! :) Please consider dropping a review and letting me know what you think - all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter! c;**


End file.
